Experience, knowledge, common sense,
How we listen, patience, being realistic,
About our goals, our attitude, reactions,
To situations, understanding, life is not an easy stroll.
A few of the hills, we must climb, as we carry,
Strengthen, our inner soul.
We each have our feelings, emotions, beliefs, dreams,
And plans, as we slowly, try to succeed, in our journey,
Through this life, with our spirit, trying to guide us,
To the eternal land.
Some come easy, others lead to binds, life is like,
A math problem, divide, everything by the unknown,
The length of our life in time.


                                                                                      Tom Maxwell © 1/7/2020 A.D. 11:50 am

Hey, who ever reads this announcement can you plz comment some ideas for poems cause I'm brain dead and haven't been able to think for 4 days. I appreciate it.
Thx.
Even tho nobody will prolly comment still thx.

THE MIND

The mind is a book & it's encrypted with whatever  always activated on it. However, whenever you speaks its more like reading out what had already been written, stored on the tablet of the mind. The more you study it more you understands it, the more easy it becomes to work for you.

The mind also could be compared to a void farmstead without cultivation. It's got to be cultivated by planting seeds of good thoughts, ideas, and creativity potentials, with enormous talents.

Lest weeds is allowed to grow and germinate on a precious ****** farm-field of the mind.
Plus: The mind is a world on which everythang happens and done before on the physical world.


Reason that! It's the more freedom on the mind more as the freedom around. The mind is the first place to survive if anyone wants to survive whatever they may be going through, refine and reset the mind. Because life begins from within the mind.
#c9_fm

As the last tune finally escapes the sparrows throat

The echo is stronger than the original breathing note

Depressing that we can only acknowledge that with time

And to only give praise to them who are sitting in Charon's boat

What remains of my poems
Is stillborn
Wrapped in senseless rhythm
Left to fend for itself
In the realm of thought

What remains of my poems
Is a pause
A seizure of the epileptic
The workmanship of
Industrious fallen angels

When obscurity disguises itself in distinct knowledge,
And ignorance claims to be adequate intelligence,
Confusion conveniently establishing as the norm,
Excluding any possibility of contradiction, ...